


Harpy

by McCoyote



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Porn With Plot, Romance, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-06-23 23:53:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19712077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McCoyote/pseuds/McCoyote
Summary: If only they could see the terrifying Flaco Hernández now, Flaco laughed, a recluse struggling against stiff joints. Certainly not a dead man according to thegringothat shot him. Really he ought to thank him for that supposed photograph of his ‘corpse’ － it was nice not having to worry anymore...... until a half-dead woman stumbled onto his land and brought trouble with her.





	1. Part I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Admin Cock (Admin_Cock)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Admin_Cock/gifts).



> Hey [Admin Cock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Admin_Cock/pseuds/Admin%20Cock), remember when I said I'd gift a Flaco work to you if I ever wrote it? Well, here you go! It's only going to be a two-parter so I should have it finished before next century.

Rain poured for days, half-melting the snow on the ground into slush and mud. It gave a chill bite to the air just as it had been starting to warm up too, Flaco lamented. The cold made his bones ache and reminded him of every bump his body had taken over the years. It reminded him that he was getting old. 

If only they could see the terrifying Flaco Hernández now, Flaco laughed, a recluse struggling against stiff joints. Certainly not a dead man according to the _gringo_ that shot him. Really he ought to thank him for that supposed photograph of his ‘corpse’ － it was nice not having to worry about anyone trying to track him down anymore. 

Could have done without the bullet to the gut, though. How Flaco survived after dragging himself back in the cabin and digging the bullet out shocked even himself. He had been so in and out of it all he could remember was the blood and the pain. But here he was, still alive to haunt the wretched remains of a cabin deep in the woods of a land he had no real love for. He would probably die here, alone and stinking of cheap whiskey surrounded by the corpses of his countrymen rotting away in the ground where he buried them. 

Ah, such morose thoughts! Flaco tossed aside another empty bottle and fought to stand upright. The room tilted and spun, but the old outlaw staggered his way to the door to relieve his aching bladder. The cold aggravated the throbbing pains of his battered body, but he could hold it no longer as he relieved himself to the side of the threshold. 

A dark shape caught his attention at the edge of the lake, just around the fringe of trees that lined its frozen shore. Flaco tucked himself away and squinted his eyes against the blur of intoxication. It was just an animal he thought, or perhaps his drunken mind was conjuring images from the twilight. But no, there it was again － a steady movement against the wind, the dark shape slumping against a tree. A dark shape that stood on two legs. 

Flaco gritted his teeth and pulled his gun. Either it was a sickly bear or someone had stumbled upon his hideout. Water seeped through his worn cavalry boots as he stalked through the slick wet muck. Flaco cursed whatever entity had him leaving the warmth of his cabin to freeze his _huevos_ off. To top it off heavy clouds were rolling in on the sharp wind, darkening the sky further as the sun nestled itself into the horizon. 

“ _Hijo de puta_ ,” Flaco grumbled as his boot slid forward on the wet snow. He tightened his grip on his revolver and caught himself, wobbling precariously with his elbows out for balance. A sharp pain tweaked in his back once he started moving again － an annoyance that fueled his eagerness to put a bullet in the intruder. 

As he approached the first tree in the copse Flaco could see it was definitely a person. There was no sign of a horse, and Flaco could make out the exact path they had taken as he got close enough to see the sloppy dragging lines in the snow. Their long coat consumed their whole body and was soaked and caked in mud; it looked like they had fallen down more than once. They were slumped against a tree looking in danger of collapsing on the ground. Flaco took aim regardless, his senses still keen enough to react to a possible threat. 

“Don’t move _pendejo_ ,” Flaco barked. The figure didn’t respond, didn’t even look up. Flaco growled and closed the gap, roughly grabbing the figure by the shoulder only to have them topple over on their back. The hood slipped down in the process and released a tumble of wavy auburn hair. 

_Dios mío_ , a fucking woman! Flaco holstered his gun and paced around with his hands on his hips. A groan escaped the woman’s lips, which were an alarming shade of blue against her pale skin. A fever would probably take her within the week. It would be a mercy to put a bullet in her head now, he thought. 

A heavy sigh plumed in the air as he knelt to bundle her in his arms. No matter what crimes he had committed Flaco had never been one to go around killing unarmed women or children. Not on purpose, anyway. 

Flaco’s sore body protested the entire walk back to the cabin. More than once he considered just leaving her out in the cold. What was this _mujer estúpida_ doing wandering so deep into the woods, horseless and in this foul weather? Her wet clothes were ice cold against his torso, and this close Flaco could see how torn and ragged the deep blue skirts beneath the coat were around the hem. Wherever she was from she had been eager to get away.

Flaco kicked open the front door to the cabin and staggered awkwardly through the slim frame. The woman’s head bumped the wood despite his efforts and a weak groan came from her lips. Flaco only felt the smallest twinge of guilt as he dropped her down on his cot with an exhausted grunt. 

For a moment Flaco only huffed some air to catch his breath as he warmed by the fire. The dim firelight flickered over the woman’s face － high cheekbones, dark brows and a dusting of fine freckles across her cheeks and nose that stood out against the sickly pale of her face. He pressed a curious hand against her skin and found her hot. If he didn’t get her out of those wet clothes she wouldn’t have a chance.

“ _Qué haces, idiota?_ ” Flaco grumbled to himself, finally moving into action. There was no point in bringing her here if he hadn’t meant to try and save her. With impersonal efficiency Flaco stripped the woman, less focused on her nudity than the angry black, purple and yellow splotches that covered her ribs, arms and legs. Either she had had one hell of an accident or someone had been beating on her for a long time. 

Flaco ground his teeth against the sympathy that tugged at his chest. The quicker she died or recovered the quicker he could get back to drinking himself senseless, he reasoned. After some rooting around Flaco found his spare flannel that he dressed the woman in none too gently. Taking a stab at modestly Flaco buttoned it all the way to the throat even though the hem just managed to fall mid thigh on her long limbs. It was the best he could do until her own clothes dried where he draped them around the fire. 

As a final touch Flaco pulled the blankets over her shivering form and slid the cot and all as close to the fire as he could get it. When he was done he slumped down into a rickety chair and took the last pull from an old whiskey bottle amidst a graveyard of them scattered on the table. So much for drinking himself senseless. He narrowed his eyes at the woman, but there was no real heat in his glare. 

Misery was a constant companion long before his uninvited guest. With no gang there seemed to be little point in the meandering outlaw life anymore. Flaco felt too tired to make the trip back to Mexico, and in truth he had nothing there to call him home anymore. Nowhere to call home either, for that matter. Just this rotting cabin and what little possessions of his own and what he’d scavenged from the corpses of his brethren. 

Suddenly weary Flaco stumbled to the cot and shed his damp outer clothes to dry by the woman’s. A slow throb was beginning in his temple, and he’d be damned if this woman was going to intrude on his privacy _and_ steal his bed too. He rolled her to her side and laid himself down on top of the blankets, letting her settle in part on top of him once he was as comfortable as he was going to get. If she woke up and panicked later, well… that was a problem he would handle when they got there. 

All he wanted for now was to sleep away the pounding in his head and the hollowness in his heart.

✭✭✭

A gentle stirring against his body made Flaco jolt awake. A slight pressure on his chest eased and the old outlaw blinked in confusion as two glassy blue-green eyes surveyed him from where the woman’s head had lifted. There was less panic in her expression than a detached curiosity. She tried to speak, her words dry and wheezing. A thin-fingered hand slid across his chest so she could touch her throat, holding it as if it was the only way she could squeeze out the request for water.

Flaco dropped his head back onto the cot and sighed before beginning the arduous process of getting his body moving. It was always the hardest when he first woke up, especially since he had spent the night in the same position. There were several cracks and pops when he managed to work some feeling into his stiff joints, and from the corner of his eye he could see the woman watching him with the glaze of lethargy on her face.

At least she wasn’t harping at him or making demands, which Flaco would have put a stop to immediately. Almost to goad her into rushing him Flaco took his time retrieving a cup before he went outside to scoop up some clean snow that hadn’t yet melted away. The woman remained silent as he melted it enough for her to drink, but the haste in the way her fingers wrapped around the proffered cup and drank down the contents gave away her desperation for it. Her eyes slipped closed as the liquid slid down her long throat, dark lashes fluttering against her flushed cheeks. 

“Thank you,” the woman managed, hardly a whisper, the empty cup slipping from her slackening grip as she eased back down on the cot. 

Flaco grunted, finding it harder to keep himself bristled at the woman. He found a stub of cigar and lit it from the end of a flaming piece of kindling he ignited in the fire. “Surprised you ain’t dead, _señorita_. Didn’t think you would make it through the night.”

“Why…?” The woman didn’t elaborate, clearly didn’t have the energy for it, but Flaco understood what she was asking. 

Flaco shook his head and stared unseeing into the flames after he added more wood. “Been asking myself the same thing.” Flaco shrugged. “Maybe you got money, maybe some nice jewelry. Maybe you stole something, and that’s why you stumbled across my land on foot in this weather. Who knows? You might still die, so it don’t matter yet anyway.”

Flaco cut his eyes to the side to gauge her expression, expecting indignance or fear however weak it may have been, but the woman was _smiling_ at him, relieved even. She made to check her pockets and seemed to finally realize her state of undress. _Now_ she would react, Flaco thought smugly, but was once again disappointed at her indifference. Instead she craned her neck until she spotted the trunk where her tattered blue skirt was draped.

“Pocket,” she indicated, sliding an arm over her forehead as if it pained her to speak. It probably did. The small conversation took it out of her, and in the amount of time it took for Flaco to dip his hand into the still damp pocket of her skirts she was asleep again. His fingers closed around a small circular object, and a decent sized diamond ring glinted from his palm when he turned to the fire to examine it. 

Eyebrows shooting into the air Flaco turned to question her but the woman was letting out even rattling breaths that sounded heavy with phlegm as she slept. Pieces of her story were forming together, not that Flaco particularly cared, but the bruises paired with how willingly she would offer up such a nice little ring were telling. At least he would be getting something out of this ‘good deed’ after all. 

✭✭✭

It was another two days before Flaco got much other than incoherent mumbling from the woman. At more than one point the fever had burned through her so hot that she soaked the flannel, blanket and cot in a cold sweat, her dark hair plastered to her face as she thrashed her head from side to side. Flaco could only watch on as she fought it from taking her, forcing water down her throat when she was lucid enough to drink. 

Flaco awoke during the night to the sound of a heavy thud and scrape against the wooden planks of the cabin. He lifted his head from his pallet on the floor, hand flying to the pistol next to his head until he realized the woman had rolled herself from the cot in an attempt to stand. Rousing himself and scrubbing a tired hand over his face Flaco got up. He grabbed her by the arms and hoisted her up. 

She was tall and slender, nearly able to look him in the eyes as she leaned into him for support. She kept her eyes averted and swayed uncertainly, gripping the fur of his heavy coat. “I have to－”

“I got you, _señorita_ ,” Flaco interrupted gruffly, helping her to the corner where an empty bucket sat. Once he was certain she was steady enough to take care of business he exited the cabin to take a piss of his own. 

The weather had still not let up. The steady cold drizzle pattered against Flaco’s face and brought him to full vigilance. Now that the woman was awake maybe he could get a few answers and decide exactly what it was he was going to do with her. It would be a few days yet before she would be well enough to travel, but Flaco would need supplies before then. 

He had been painfully sober the last couple days, and he almost felt as sick as his charge. 

When Flaco ducked back inside the woman had only made it to the lone chair and was slumped into the seat. At first he thought she may have passed out there until she lifted her head at his entrance. 

“Still alive I see.”

“Barely,” she replied. 

Flaco retrieved the tin cup and dipped it into a pot hanging by the fire. “Broth,” he said, setting it on the small table in front of her. 

It was unnerving the way she watched him, her large eyes light enough they seemed to glow. They focused in on his trembling hands. She made no comment as she ignored the broth in favor of leaning forward to pull the blanket from the cot to her to bundle in. Flaco busied himself with stoking the fire even though he felt sweat at his hairline and then seated himself on the vacated cot to face her. 

“Drink,” he said gruffly, annoyed she had yet to touch the broth. She continued to watch him, unafraid. Was he losing his touch? There was a time when people would cower in fear at his looming presence alone, and here he was being faced down by a sick little woman like he was a petulant child.

“You don’t look well.” 

Flaco pressed his lips together at the irritated flush that almost made him dizzy. For some reason he wanted to yell at her, to scare her into getting well so she could leave him in peace. He didn’t need her concern or her disapproval as her eyes roved over the empty bottles that lay scattered across the cabin. 

Just as his temper was boiling to a peak she carefully lifted the cup from the table with what meager strength she had left in her. After a couple small sips she said, “Carys.”

“Eh?”

“My name is Carys.” Her voice was cracked and strained from the havok the sickness had wreaked on her throat, but it was getting stronger. “Thank you.”

“You keep saying that. I ain’t the kind of man you should be thanking.”

Carys looked unsure how to respond, so she took another sip of broth. Fear would have been a more appropriate response. More familiar. Flaco wasn’t sure why he felt the need to intimidate, but like an old bear he made himself big and tough to defend his territory. 

Then Carys was abandoning her cup and moved to stand over him, a willowy wraith painted in the oranges and yellows of the firelight. Flaco sneered up at her, but she ignored his expression with a resolute one of her own and pressed the back of her hand briefly to his forehead. It felt cold, alarmingly so － or was he _hot?_ － and he jerked away from the touch.

“I’m tired,” Carys said when she let her hand drop. Flaco opened his mouth to let her know he wasn’t moving － this was his bed, damn it, and he’d been generous so far － but she was already sliding in behind him and stretching herself into the empty spaces he left behind. 

Feeling as if the wind had been let out of his sails Flaco made as if to stand, but Carys stilled him with a simple touch to the back of his large hand. What a frightening thing such a gnarled and scarred appendage must be to a woman covered in bruises, Flaco mused, and yet she touched him so freely. “Lay with me?” 

Flaco could only imagine the dumbstruck expression he gave as he twisted to look down at her. It felt like some kind of ploy, like he was being worked, but her eyes were already half-lidded and her cheeks still had that too-rosy hue. With no real reason not to acquiesce Flaco stretched himself out beside her. She wriggled to be half on top of him like that first night, pressing her cheek into the fur of his coat. 

“You’re warm,” she said as she fiddled idly with one of the claw fastenings on his chest. 

_Too warm_ , Flaco was going to say, but he found he didn’t have the energy. He was already drifting toward unconsciousness.

✭✭✭

Flaco drifted in and out for a long while, sometimes waking and sometimes dreaming. So many faces from his past haunted him, ghosts of the lives he had taken, and he told them exactly where they could go if they thought to extract some amount of remorse from him. Life was about surviving, and he did what he had to. 

There were times of clarity too, when he was semi-aware of a cup pressed to his lips and something cool across his forehead, or a warm body tucked into his side. Flashes of dark hair that glowed red-brown, pale skin, a concern-pinched face. 

In the beginning these things were hard to separate until the heat had burned its way through his shivering body. When he finally woke from his delirium he was near frozen with the stiffness of not moving. Carys was poking at the fire, more fully dressed in her smallclothes though her blue dress still dried by the fire. It looked cleaner than before.

The first movement Flaco made ripped a groan and curses from him. Carys started and glanced over her shoulder at him through the fall of her wild hair. 

“You made me sick,” Flaco accused. Carys pursed her lips and moved around to help him, ignoring the way he tried to shoo her like she was a fly. 

“The whiskey made you sick,” she countered, ducking to drape his arm across her shoulders and help him upright. While he was out Carys appeared to have mostly recovered, though helping a big man like him to his feet was probably still a taxing effort. He nudged her away once he was upright, and thankfully she gave him his space to fill a cup with water.

“Ain’t had any in days.”

“Which is why you were sick,” she replied patiently. She held out the cup, chin high, like she was expecting him to fight her some more. A part of him wanted to but Flaco took the cup and drank it down, his eyes never leaving hers. “I’ll fetch more water.”

Flaco clamped down on her wrist before she could past, just firm enough to root her to the spot. “Stay, or you’ll catch fever again. I’ll do it.” 

“You’re sick too.”

“I’ll live,” Flaco responded, grabbing the near-empty water pot and heading for the door. “It’s my curse.” 

By the time Flaco came back the smell of beans was strong in the cabin, enough to make his empty stomach lurch with hunger and nausea at the same time. Nice to see Carys wasn’t shy about rifling through his things, Flaco thought bitterly, settling the pot down on the table with a hard thump that rattled and knocked over some of the empty glass bottles. Another headache was forming behind his eyes, not helped by the tension in his neck and shoulders. 

“Making yourself at home, eh?” Carys frowned at his angry tone, but her spine straightened and she continued to stir the pot like he hadn’t just made a mess. Was there no sense of caution in this woman? 

“We have to eat. That ring should buy more supplies if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

Ah, yes, the pretty little diamond in his pocket. “You got a man somewhere that goes with it?”

“Not anymore.”

“He leave them bruises on you?” 

That struck a nerve. Her response was clipped as she repeated: “Not anymore.”

“Dead, eh?” There was a beat of stifling silence before Flaco cackled at the forced nonchalance on the woman’s face. She was no poker player, and apparently not as much of a lady as she sounded. He stepped forward and used his height to tower over her. To her credit she didn’t flinch, though a fine tremble seemed to vibrate through her body. “You have him killed… or did you dirty up those pretty little hands?”

The primal growl that escaped Carys’s throat startled Flaco, but her hands firm upon his chest shoving with all the might her slim body possessed in a fit of righteous anger left him gobsmacked. It barely rocked him back on his heels, but Carys was undeterred as her fingers curled into fists at her sides. She was a sight, like some kind of harpy with her wild hair and flashing eyes. 

“What about the death on _your_ hands Flaco Hernández?” she shot back. He noticed an accent, something subtle but musical and foreign as it wrapped its way around his name with venom.

Flaco’s revolver was pointed between her eyes in the next breath, all prior amusement vanished. Flaco admired the way Carys didn’t quail in front of the barrel, but her eyes flicked to the gun and back to his hard face more than once. “Whatchu call me, _gringa_?”

Carys rolled her eyes, careful not to move an inch of the rest of her body. She knew how serious the situation was even if she tried to act flippant － good. “No need to play dumb with me, I couldn’t care less. I saw one of those silly cigarette cards on the table.” 

“Ah, but you _should_ care.” Flaco had forgotten that stupid piece of worn card stock he had spent too much time examining in his cups; a symbol of vanity as much a reminder of his diminished youth. “They say he is cold… a true killer with no remorse for his sins.” To underline his point Flaco cocked his gun, the corner of his mustache twitching at the swallow that bobbed Carys’s white throat where she craned her neck to look up at him. “The life of a nosy woman would mean nothing.”

“Stories are greatly exaggerated things,” Carys still managed to reply, her anger giving way to a soft resignation. “Are you going to kill me now?” Matter-of-fact, almost… hopeful? Relieved? No fear though, never with this one.

Flaco’s mouth parted, but a loud banging at the door cut off their conversation. Carys was damn lucky Flaco was steady on the trigger in the wake of such an abrupt interruption. Flaco hissed and glanced over his shoulder before lowering his gun and gripping the tops of Carys’s arms (firm, but not hard enough to add to her landscape of bruises) and maneuvering her so she would be behind the door when it opened, hiding her from view.

His own motivations for keeping Carys out of sight weren’t clear even to him. A sickly half-dressed white woman alone in a remote cabin with a grizzled old Mexican was bound to raise too many questions, he reasoned. The less attention he brought to himself the longer Flaco Hernández stayed dead. Flaco expected Carys to fight him, maybe take her chances with the stranger behind the door, but she went easy into the small space and without question. Flaco just barely registered her look of trepidation as she glanced at the door before he cracked it to answer.

“What?” Flaco barked, glaring out at a wind-burned white man covered in the grime of many nights on the road and a cocky stance of self-importance he knew all too well. Bounty hunter. The man worked tobacco around in his jaw, surveying his surroundings as he unfolded a wanted poster. Flaco adjusted his grip on his revolver where it rested flat against the frame of the door. 

“You seen a white woman come through here recently? Tall, dark-reddish hair, alone.” 

Flaco didn’t bother to look at the picture. “No, _pendejo_ , never seen no lost little women wandering around.”

The man spit to the side and jutted his hip as if to pronounce the presence of his sidearm as he hooked a thumb through a belt loop. He squinted hard to try and see beyond Flaco’s body and into the cabin. “Not just a little woman, a little killer. Shot her sheriff fiancé dead and skipped town. Daughter of a mayor too － how tragic.” 

“Ain’t seen no one out here, now fuck off.” 

A heavy boot in front of the door stopped Flaco from shutting it in the man’s face. It was too much to hope he’d go away without incident. The man’s hand was now resting on the obnoxiously shiny handle of his pistol. He’d plastered on a mockery of friendliness to try and cover the action. “Say, uhh- _migo_ , it’s mighty chilly out here. Mind if I warm up by your fire before I head out?”

“I said to _fuck off_ , _cabrón_.”

“See,” the bounty hunter started, rubbing the back of his neck in thought, “problem is I already found tracks over yonder that tell me the woman I’m lookin' for is inside. I tried to be a gentleman about it－”

Flaco had braced himself but not hard enough. The man threw his weight against the door, knocking the revolver from Flaco’s hand and shoving his way inside. Flaco caught his balance and grappled the man, using his greater height and weight to his advantage as they fought over the man’s pistol and the direction it was pointed. Flaco was able to force the man’s arm enough to the side to keep clear from a bullet.

“No woman here but you, _ese,_ ” Flaco taunted, laughing at the man’s weakness even as he took a punch to the mouth. He didn’t chance glancing behind the bounty hunter and giving away Carys’s position, though if the girl had a brain she would have used the distraction to slip outside. 

The bounty hunter seemed to take stock of the cabin as Flaco wiped his mouth, his taunting grin a bloody smile at his attacker. The dumbfounded look on the man’s face when he didn’t see her immediately pulled a bark of laughter from Flaco － distraction enough that the man took no notice of the quick shadow that darted across the sunlight spilling in through the doorway. 

Assuming Carys had slipped away Flaco prepared to finish off the man bare-handed, but a strong voice from behind the bounty hunter caught them both unawares.

“He lied,” Carys lilted. The gunshot was deafening in the tiny cabin, blood and matter spraying both Carys and Flaco as the bounty hunter’s body crumpled to the floor. Flaco’s revolver was still smoking in her hands, the light spilling in setting her hair aflame. Not just a harpy but a goddess of chaos, Flaco mused, even more convinced when she lowered the barrel to point at the ground. He expected to die by the end of his own gun.

Instead she held it out to him grip first, her eyes almost daring him to continue their altercation from before. Flaco snatched his weapon from her and sniffed, holstering it at his hip and looking down at the bounty hunter whose head had a sizeable chunk blown off and was leaking into the floorboards. Carys moved by him like she was in a trance, grabbing a discarded bandana and dunking it in the forgotten water to clean the blood from her face. When she was done she calmly rinsed the blood from the bandana and turned back to him, pressing the cool cloth to the side of his throbbing mouth. 

Flaco flinched and grabbed her wrist, removing the bandana and hastily wiping at the blood himself. “Looks like we need to talk.” 

“Nothing to talk about, is there?” Flaco glared at her. Carys sighed. “It’s true － is that what you wanted to hear? But I’ll die before I let them take me to hang in the name of that bastard!”

“He ain’t taking you nowhere,” Flaco pointed out flatly, nudging the dead body with his boot. 

Carys glared back defiantly. “There’s always more where that one came from and you damn well know it.”

“ _Sí_ , and now you brought them sniffing around my door.”

They stared each other down, a battle of wills, and in this Flaco came out on top because Carys sighed and dropped her gaze. The way she wrapped her arms around herself gave the illusion of defenselessness, but Flaco knew better, had just _seen_. “Just… give me a day to clean up and I’ll leave.”

“You’ll die on foot with no supplies.”

“What do you want me to do?” Carys snapped. 

Flaco pondered this a moment before heading to the door, kicking the body of the bounty hunter once more as he passed. “Clean up your mess. I’ll go make a hole to stick him in.”

  
  
  



	2. Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a liar - this story has grown a bit, and so I'll make it three parts rather than two.

Carys scrubbed at the dark stain in the wood as best she could with the scrap of old cloth at her disposal. The hardened Mexican had just come for the body, nose red from the cold and eyes still blood-shot and glazed from his own sickness. They said nothing. Carys had let her gaze linger on the man when he had hoisted up bounty hunter with gritted teeth and labored grunts. He paid her little mind. 

It was tense between them － a shaky ground where neither was sure where to step without losing their footing.

The door banged open, and Flaco stepped back inside with a saddle bag slung over his shoulder. Carys bit her lips at his dramatic entrance, concealing it behind her long hair. A big man like him always huffing and stomping and throwing his weight around as if he wasn't impressive and larger than life as it was. Ridiculous.

It was just another reason Carys assumed she'd taken a plunge off the deep end. Nothing about her situation should be amusing. Carys had heard terrifying stories of Flaco Hernández, knew this wasn't the kind of man she should take lightly or put her trust in. But for all his growls and threats he had treated her with more respect than what were supposed to be _civilized_ folk. 

Not that Carys could count really count herself among them. 

Flaco shed his coat to dry by the fire and sat down in the chair. Carys could feel his eyes on her as she worked though she kept her gaze rooted to the floor. She wondered what Flaco thought of her now that he knew her situation. She was sure he had pegged her for helpless by the jabs he’d used to rile her… but that was before she blew a man’s head off in front of him.

Admittedly it was only the second life she had ever taken, and the reality of it hadn’t quite set in all the way.

_He_ didn't need to know that.

“It’s about as clean as it’s gonna get,” Flaco commented as he was digging through the saddle bag draped over his splayed muddy legs. “Come － sit. Ahh, _bueno_!” He pulled out a mostly full bottle of bourbon and spun the cap off. 

Carys watched him gulp down a drink and smack his lips to savor the taste. Idiot. Just like a man to go back to the bottle after it ails him. Her own father had a predilection for the stuff, as had her dear departed fiancé. Nevertheless Carys took the bottle when Flaco offered, though she really only sipped at it to numb the swelling anxiety in her chest.

"Now," Flaco began, setting the bottle aside after she handed it back, "let us see what else our bounty hunter friend left for us."

"Us?"

Flaco shrugged. "We split it. You killed him, I buried him." Carys frowned. With a surge of frantic energy she stood to busy herself checking her clothes. They were as clean as she could get them without a proper scrub board or soap, but she desperately wanted a bath before she even thought of putting them on. She'd need to get more water, though Flaco ought to go first since he was caked in mud…

"Oh, come on, _señorita_!" Flaco interrupted her erratic thoughts with that raspy goading voice. "You ain't getting soft over a bounty hunter _perro_ are you? Or is it that man of yours? Tell me about _him_."

Bastard! Flaco smirked as the color rose high in her cheeks while she white-knuckled the handle on the water pot. He had a talent for burrowing under the skin deep into a person's weakest spot. He'd been trying so hard to needle her since she had first come to. For the most part it was easy to ignore his slights as misguided attempts to assert his authority. Carys had dealt with that type of behavior before, and she wasn't impressed.

But Flaco _really_ had a knack for aggravating an open wound. Carys bit her tongue and tried to ignore the bile rising up in her throat. He knew her crimes, and that was enough. 

"No."

" _No_?" Flaco growled. 

Carys could picture the heat radiating off her face in waves. She was so tired of his attempts at cowing her. When his fingers twitched closer to his revolver she nearly threw the damn pot at his head.

"Oh, shoot me or don't!" Carys fairly shrieked. All of that anxiety and guilt came bubbling forth and then spewing like a geyser. "Stop trying to manipulate me with intimidation. You could have left me out in the snow, or shot me, or let the fever take me. You'll not bully me into submission." 

Flaco sat back in the chair with smug amusement as Carys pulled her muddy jacket on and snatched up the water pot. She didn't even bother taking the time to dress all the way in her fit lest she _actually_ club the man. "I'm going for water," she added angrily before stomping out of the cabin.

By the time Carys came back she was chilled to the bone, but the cold had soothed the jumpiness in her frayed nerves. Flaco was still drinking, filling the air in the cabin with smoke from a cigarette he must have found in the bounty hunter’s possessions. Carys wrinkled her nose and headed straight for the fire to warm herself and the water. In the aftermath of her temper she had come up with a plan － bathe, dress, eat, sleep, and in the morning she would take the bounty hunter’s horse and be gone. 

After that it was up in the air. Carys was too preoccupied stewing with guilt and anger to think that far ahead. It had always been her downfall, the volcanic nature of her emotions. 

They had also been her saving grace. 

Cary was surprised at Flaco’s lack of commentary. Maybe he was surprised at her audacity. Not many people were brave enough to talk back to the Terror of the Grizzlies, let alone provoke him unarmed. Deep down Carys didn’t believe much of what the rumor mill had to offer, but each story usually housed a grain of truth. Flaco killed people, a _lot_ of people, and nothing was stopping him from killing her. 

Carys was certain he wouldn’t, just like she was certain he had no intention of trying to collect her bounty. It would be easy money, but Carys got the impression the outlaw enjoyed a challenge. There was no guarantee she was right other than what was in her gut, but that same feeling had passed over her just before she had pulled the trigger on her fiancé. She had come too far to ignore her instinct now. 

“You got more _cojones_ than a lot of men in this country.” 

When Carys finally glanced up it seemed Flaco had been thinking out loud more than talking to her. The bottle of bourbon was rapidly disappearing, and Carys decided to pull the water from the fire before Flaco hit the halfway point. She nudged aside some empty bottles with the steaming pot as she set it on the table.

“You’re filthy,” Carys pointed out. “I heated some water if you want to wash up.” 

Flaco stared with an unsmiling face as he sipped the bourbon once more, lips slowly wrapping around the bottle in an exaggerated pull. His flat brown eyes almost glittered with mirth, however, and Carys perched her hands on her hips as she tried to work out just what was so amusing. 

“If you don’t I will,” she added. 

“Go ahead,” he invited with a wave of his hand. 

There was a beat where Carys dunked the old bandana in the warm water before she realized Flaco wasn't going to offer any privacy for her to wash. No wonder that normally unhappy face was on the verge of cracking a smile. It only added fuel to her stubborn fire as she gave a heavy sigh. Fine. If he thought his presence was going to stop her from scrubbing the taint of sickness and death from her skin the joke was on him.

Steeling her spine Carys slipped off her shirt and draped it over her skirt, scrubbing what she could before her chemise got in the way. Carys glanced at Flaco, who remained just as relaxed and impassive as he was before. His eyes never left her. She turned her back on him and slipped out of her chemise, exposing her upper half to the chill air of the cabin.

As Carys washed she chose to ignore her voyeur, though the goosebumps on her flesh would hardly let her forget. As violating as it was to have someone watch her during such an intimate ritual it was also exciting in a way to be viewed as if she were a great beauty. In her younger years perhaps, but Carys had chosen to live through those days with fierce independence. She had only gotten engaged at the age of eight-and-twenty at her father's imperious behest.

Marrying the law with the politics in their growing town was meant to represent a strong united front. Carys suspected her father's motivations ran deeper, for he was a businessman above all else, and having the law on his side was always a lucrative decision.

Time and misery had bore lines on her face and stooped her once-proud shoulders. The bruises were fading but were ugly shades of yellow and brown, her long hair a nest. Flaco must be sorely disappointed, Carys mused, giving herself the courage to turn around to rinse out the brown bandana. 

A small noise like a pleased hum emanated from Flaco’s direction, sending chills ghosting down her back. Carys felt her nipples tighten in excitement, and as she turned back around she flicked her eyes up to catch a glimpse of him. He looked downright _hungry_ , all pretense of teasing gone. Tongue wetting his chapped lips, eyes burning, attention riveted on her naked skin. 

Carys gulped and hastily scrubbed between her legs, thankful for the split-crotch of her drawers. It was a far cry from the real bath she needed, but it would have to do. Despite the chill in the cabin Carys felt hot as she dressed herself fully as if sheathing herself in armor. She dropped the bandana in the water with a _plunk_ and sat herself on the cot. 

"Better?" 

Carys snorted. "Wonderful."

"You know," Flaco said as he heaved himself from the chair and began to undress, " _you_ could have left while the bounty hunter was distracted."

"Just to have him hunt me down later." 

Carys shook her head, trying not to stare blatantly as Flaco shed his cotton tunic to reveal an impossibly scarred torso, some even slashing into the curly stretch of hair on his chest and leaving the skin raised and bare. On his stomach was a nasty mass of scar tissue that still looked raw and sore. Though he was hardly chiseled his physique held the appearance of confidence and maturity kept toned by the hard life of an outlaw. Though not as imposing as when in his full outlaw regalia he was a sight to behold, darkly alluring in his coarse unrefined way. 

Flaco kicked off his boots and paused at the buttons on his pants. "Could have shot me too."

"With your own gun?" Carys swallowed hard as he dropped his dirty pants and kicked them aside. He was clearly erect beneath his long johns. "I wouldn't be so cold to someone who saved my life." Carys crossed her arms while Flaco rinsed the bandana and started to clean up. "I believe in paying debts."

" _Una vida para una vida_." Flaco barked a laugh and glanced over his shoulder at her. " _Una exposición para una exposición._ "

Carys turned herself towards the fire, feeling as if he was tormenting her again, only this time in a language she couldn't defend herself in. More annoying was the fact that it had her pulse racing as much as it set her nerves aflame. A rustle of cloth indicated his fully nude state behind her, and God forgive her if she wanted to turn around and sate her curiosity.

"Tell me something," Carys wondered aloud, grasping at conversation to keep her composure, "aren't you the leader of some gang? Will they be back soon?"

"Not from where they went.” An uncomfortable pause followed, along with the slosh of water. 

“Dead then?” Carys gave up her inhibition and turned to appraise him after regurgitating his own words back at him. Their eyes locked, she was caught, but to see the wry smile he directed at her was worth it. Carys knew how to take a cheap shot as well as anyone else.

“ _Sí._ ” Water droplets inched down his chest, their trails reflecting in the flickering light and highlighting a path downward that Carys’s eyes tried to follow. “Flaco Hernández died too, ain’t you heard?” 

When he turned his attention away Carys glimpsed the thick cock between his legs － dark and veiny, curving from a curly nest of black hair － still hard and bobbing enticingly with his movements. Raw desire consumed her, that pulsing heat now more of a thundering inferno, wondering what it would be like to be stretched by such an enormous thing. More than that, to see Flaco lose his perfect composure and ease those tense lines that carved into his face. 

How long had he been alone out here in the wide nothing of Ambarino? Cold, wounded and miserable, courting death but never taking the plunge? 

That compulsion to do something irrational was upon her. Mouth dry, ears ringing, Carys clenched her hands around one another in her lap as if to wring out some hidden sense, but they came up dry unlike the valley between her legs. Desire like this was a forgotten memory, buried under images of a sweating body she had felt nothing for, and then later nothing but disgust. 

"You look alive to me." Somehow Carys spoke with more confidence than she felt. 

A shadow darkened his face, and he looked tired as he shrugged. Bone-weary. "Walking dead, _lucerito_." Carys stood before she could stop herself and gently curled her fingers around his muscular arm. Flaco looked down where she touched him.

"We'll see," she whispered, urging him backward to the chair. "Sit."

Curiosity seemed to drive Flaco to follow her order. He sat down, chair creaking, looking up at her with his dark brows furrowed. Carys brushed the limp strands of his shaggy hair back from his face, raking his scalp gently with her nails. Flaco’s lips parted as her hands continued down the sides of his neck, across his shoulders and onto his chest － exploring, touching, _teasing_. He kept his hands on his hairy thighs, letting her have her way, visibly in awe that this was on her mind.

Carys was pleasantly surprised at his compliance. It made this insane decision easier, made her feel like she had power for a change. When Carys sank to her knees in front of him she heard an intake of breath whistle through Flaco’s clenched teeth. She looked up at him, kneading his thighs, brushing the backs of his hands with her fingertips. 

The anticipation on his face made her lips curl into a little smirk. Her fingertips grazed the base of his cock, and the answering groan she pulled from him nearly made her feel dizzy. Lord, but he was large in her hands! She could barely get her fingers around his shaft at the bottom, felt her core flood with arousal at the hopes of accommodating him. She hadn't decided, hadn't thought about much but living in the moment, truly _living_ , doing what she wanted because it was her will. 

And Flaco let her, gave her free reign over his body, and Carys had never felt so light and free, like the burden of an unhappy lifetime had been lifted from her shoulders. At first it had been about knocking Flaco off balance for a change, but now it was something more, something better. Carys squeezed and slid her hands along the length of him, pumping slowly, savoring the sight of his half-lidded eyes as he melted under her touch.

"I've been dead a long time too," Carys offered, spreading the beads of arousal over his tip, savoring the shudder he gave her in return. "Let's live for a bit, shall we?"

Carys parted her lips and took him into her mouth, just the tip of him, and his pleased moan was all she needed to lose herself in passion. It was an act deemed disgusting by society － a thing only whores tolerated － but Carys found a deep pleasure in the way it brought a tough man like Flaco metaphorically to his knees. She took more of him in, jaw stretching until it ached, sucking and licking until his heavy pants and low curses filled the cabin.

One of his hands migrated to her hair, not pulling or gripping but sliding it back like a curtain so he could see her, a gentle touch that made her look up around her mouthful of him. Carys whimpered at the unexpected reverence, closing her eyes at the rough pads of his fingers tracing the sharp angles of her face. She redoubled her efforts, hollowing her cheeks and using her hands on the parts of him she couldn't hope to take in her mouth, moaning along with him until a warm salty-bitter flood spilled thick over her tongue and down her throat as she swallowed.

Flaco was catching his breath as Carys lifted away from him, her face red and lips swollen with her efforts. There was something satisfying in her handiwork and seeing Flaco more contented and far removed from his disagreeable self, something that left a warm swell of affection in her breast. Funny how a man she hardly knew had more effect on her than the man she had been slated to marry.

"That was one hell of a thank you," Flaco murmured, and it all came crashing back down to reality. 

Carys felt her heart drop to her stomach, because of course that gentleness from earlier had been nothing more than an exchange for an exchange. Killers weren't meant for affection, could only give it in pantomime, and Flaco was no different. Just a lonely old man who would take whatever was given freely. 

Carys straightened her garments and cleared her throat, working to turn off all emotion in her body though such a feat had always been impossible for a hothead like herself. She forced a tight smile and moved around the cot to seat herself on his abandoned pallet by the fire. 

If it had all been a mistake, at least it was _her_ mistake, and for that she would cherish it. 

"Good,” she replied faintly. “I'm leaving in the morning."


End file.
